


Fear of flying

by Quente



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 12:28:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quente/pseuds/Quente
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Viggo thinks he can cure Sean's fear of heights. (Begun for the Contrelamontre open-ended story challenge and then expanded upon.) </p><p>I cowrote this with a lady who has since disavowed her involvement with RPF. Here's to you, K! I miss you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fear of flying

They were dancing in the air. Viggo delighted in it, cursed the fact that he hadn't had time to go skydiving with Orlando, reveled in the feeling of freefall in his gut.

The Hobbits, in a helicopter close by, seemed to be enjoying themselves as well. Viggo saw Elijah and Dominic with their arms up in the air, and Billy leaning close to the pilot, probably egging him on. The only unenthusiastic Hobbit was Sean Astin, who was holding his head with both hands in an all-too-characteristic gesture of exasperation.

They banked around a corner of a mountain, and even Ian let out a guilty whoop from his seat in front of Viggo.

Viggo sat back, grinning broadly. And then he felt a hand gripping his arm.

"What?"

"Just --" Viggo turned and noticed that Sean's face was white, pale, dripping with sweat. "Just let me hold your arm," Sean muttered in an undertone. "Just until the end of the ride."

Sean's eyes were the most beseeching Viggo had ever seen them, the most open. It was as though the flight was his own Balrog, and Sean was too petrified with fear to raise a sword.

*

As soon as they got to the ground, Sean sank down into the snow and sat, head hanging, breathing deeply.

Viggo crouched in front of him. "Hey, Bean. Bean, you need anything?"

Sean looked up, face vulnerable. "Yes," he said. "I need to never fly in one of those fucking things again. I'll walk, I'll crawl, I'll climb. But never again."

"I take it you're afraid of heights." Viggo felt a bit sorry for Sean, for he would never experience the glory of giving himself completely to the whims of the air.

"I'm afraid of heights. Yes." Sean snorted, stood, turned. Viggo dropped his own head, and suddenly felt like a huge heel.

Viggo had to give Sean credit. If Viggo had been confronted by his own worst fear, he would have been entirely unable to do justice to the script.

Sean, on the other hand, acted with a subtlety and intensity that caught Viggo off-guard.

This was no mere actor, this was a man who knew the depths of pain like they were his birthright.

*

Later that night, Viggo noticed Sean warming a corner of the hotel's bar. Sean had a beer in front of him, and a book, The Fellowship of the Ring.

Viggo ordered two whiskeys from the bartender and made his way over to the man.

"It's whiskey you need, friend," Viggo said.

"It's you, is it."

"Sean, I'm sorry. No man needs his inner heart spilled out so plainly. Drink this, let me help heal you."

"Ever the king..." Sean said, almost to himself.

Viggo grinned. "Unwilling king," he corrected. "But I do have the hands of a healer."

"Do you?" Sean's grin was broad, but a bit embarrassed. "What kind of healing?"

"I can cure what ails you." Viggo tried to make the words light, but meant them seriously.

"And what ails me other than a fear of heights?"

Viggo could have said much about how Sean lived in fear of giving himself completely, whether to women, or heights, or even, Viggo knew in his heart, men. But instead, he paused and moved his chair closer to Sean, a breath away.

"Sean..." he said, making the word into a song.

"Yes?"

"I know what ails you. Will you let me heal you?"

*

"It's not heights really," admitted Sean. And was instantly sorry he'd said anything, because now he'd have to explain.

He didn't mind so much when he was on a balcony or behind a glass window of a building that wasn't moving. It was the shaking chopper and the sudden plunges through the air, his body completely out of control, not knowing when the person next to him was going to lurch into him.

"My dad hated flying," he said as if that clarified things. "He was terrified of it. We used to get the coach to Spain every year because he wouldn't fly."

"You preferred that too?" asked Viggo, looking at Sean sideways.

"Actually no. It took three days to get there, staring out the window at nothing. I wanted to fly then, not sit there with my parents pretending to sleep."

"But your dad hated flying." The statement came slowly, as if Viggo were mulling it over, or maybe daring Sean to make something more of it.

Sean's glass was empty, though he hadn't even been aware of drinking while Viggo was speaking. He said, "It's not like he ever tried to stop me from doing it. That's not what it's about."

"What's it about, then?"

Sean looked at Viggo's hand, close enough to his on the counter that if he uncurled his fist, they'd be touching. Like on the chopper, when he'd held on to Viggo's arm as if it could keep him safe.

As if flying weren't dangerous.

"I'm just saying," he began. "It's not as simple as you think. Healing me."

"Sean," said Viggo, turning his name into a musical note. "Is it easier being afraid?"

Without meaning to, Sean flexed his fingers, bumping them into Viggo's and making him lurch in his chair. They both sat staring for a minute.

"Hands of a healer, huh?" Sean said finally, refraining from making the obvious joke -- the one that by being spoken aloud would erase its own possibility. He didn't pull his fingers back, but they hadn't touched Viggo's since that initial jolt.

Safer that way. Like not flying.

*

 

So very high off the ground.

The instructor leaned over and checked their harnesses for what felt like the tenth time. Did harnesses ever come undone? Did the ropes ever fray, did the parachutes get punctured? Sean felt the bottom of his stomach roil and burn.

What if they hit a bird, for God's sake?

Viggo seemed to read his mind, because the grin Viggo gave him was challenging, cocky, fearless.

"This'll cure you if nothing does," Viggo said, leaning back and jolting around with the turbulence.

"You two ready?"

Sean gulped, wondered for the hundredth time why he'd let Viggo talk him into this madness, and nodded.

"All set. Let's go."

When the hatch came up and the empty sky yawned beneath them, clouds rushing by more swiftly than Sean could parse, Sean realized that he wasn't going to be able to do it.

"I can't," Sean said, and sat back down.

Viggo shook his head. "Can't hear you!" The wind in the cabin was strong, a blast, a wuthering over moors of air.

Sean made big, exaggerated head shakes, signs of necks being cut, signs of "No fucking way in hell!"

Viggo merely grinned.

In two seconds that had a quality both nightmarish and fated, Sean realized that Viggo had rugby-tackled him right out the hatch, and they were falling through the air with nothing beneath them.

Sean screamed. The sound of his scream as he watched the plane recede from view was small, and a detached part of his brain that still held some logical form of thought remembered that the air was much thinner up there.

"Youuuuuu son of a biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitch..."

And then Sean remembered that he'd better pull the cord, or the ground that was rushing ever closer would crush him as easily as he crushed ants.

Sean pulled. And the next few seconds of freefall were perhaps the worst in his life, right up until his whole body jolted as the chute came alive in the wind, filled, and broke his fall.

And then he breathed, tried to make it slow and steady like the instructor had said. His heart was still pounding quickly. What would happen if he'd had a heart attack while falling?

Perhaps best not to think of the possibilities. Okay, on to more worthy thoughts. First: Had he pissed himself? And second: How was he going to kill Viggo later on, once his feet were on the ground and he could go find a weapon?

Sean didn't think he had pissed himself, although he did feel cold, colder than he'd thought he would.

The ground was still approaching much too quickly for his taste. And if he looked down, all he could see was a vast expanse of earth and his feet dangling helplessly in the wind like some kind of fish bait. Not that fish could swim through thin air, of course. Thin air... Sean felt his heart-rate increase again and took another long breath. But this didn't help one jot, because --

Fuck. There was the ground, there was the field he was supposed to land in, the vehicle waiting to pick them up. What was he supposed to do again? Hit the ground running .- or .- fuck .-

The first touch of his foot on the wide, solid earth felt like coming home. He hit the ground and ran a few steps, and then stumbled and fell sideways as the parachute landed in a heap behind him.

He lay still.

The sky was finally above him, where it should be. And the earth was solid beneath his limbs. And then .-

There was Viggo's face leaning over him, grinning madly, eyes aflame from the thrill of the fall.

"You. Fucking. Twat." Sean reached out two arms, and entangled in a chute as he was, he managed to roll over so that Viggo was pinned firmly beneath him.

He put his face a few inches away from Viggo's and gave his best bad-guy grin, the one that directors loved because it cut out any necessity to create an evil backstory for his character.

"Viggo," Sean said softly. "How would you like to die?"

"I'm glad you enjoyed it, Sean." Viggo's voice was mild, and his whole body had gone still beneath Sean's.

"Enjoy it? I loved it. That was right up there with getting a meathook in the forehead. But you haven't answered my question. How would you like to die?"

With a sudden sinuous motion Sean found that he was now beneath Viggo. The lean American was stronger than he looked.

"Well," Viggo's voice was thoughtful, his eyes piercing. "I wouldn't mind dying just like that. Falling. At least I'd get to fly for a while first."

For a strange moment, Sean felt as if he was seeing the world through Viggo's eyes, seeing their moment in the air as flight instead of falling. "I'll see if I can arrange it."

But Sean knew that his growl sounded weak.

Viggo had shown him something, no matter how unwilling he was to admit it.

*

At least his son wasn't there, Viggo had thought as he lay gasping in the boat, staring up at the sky so he wouldn't have to see the water. At least no one who loved him had to witness him dragged downstream, pulled under, pinned against a rock until he didn't think he would ever come up.

Sean had gone home for a month to wrap up some business. He couldn't stand to get on a chopper, but he could get on a plane to England. So he'd flown home for some reshoots on a movie he'd done, and to finish getting divorced.

While Sean was away, they'd filmed the distance shots of the Fellowship with his body double. Then they'd done some of the location scenes for the next movie, like Aragorn floating in the river. In that part of the story, everyone believed Aragorn had been lost.

And life had almost imitated art.

What would a fish do? Viggo had asked himself. But a fish could dive lower. A fish didn't need to get up to the air, to the light. He could understand how someone could develop a phobia after an experience like that -- maybe like Sean's terror of flying.

Viggo talked to Sean on the phone afterwards, but he didn't tell him about being dragged under. He wasn't sure what to say about it. Whether to admit that, afterwards, it had felt strangely thrilling to come so close to the abyss. To think, "This is it," and then, almost unexpectedly, to surface.

To realize that he feared not death but unlived life.

On Sean's first night back, they went to their favorite restaurant. Viggo hadn't gone there while Sean was away. His New Zealand tan faded, Sean looked sleek and pale. The lightness contrasted with the dark circles haunting his eye sockets and the hollows beneath his cheekbones.

"They told me," Sean said with a bowed head over an after-dinner beer, "that you almost drowned."

"Yeah," allowed Viggo.

"Christ." Sean's eyes flickered up and away, but not quickly enough for Viggo to miss the distress in them. "What happened?"

"We were shooting Aragorn in the river. I got caught in a current. It pulled me down." He glanced at Sean, who was breathing with his mouth open, elbows supporting his weight on the table. "It probably felt about the way you did, falling out of the plane. So we're even."

"I was supposed to get to kill you for that with my bare hands." Sean's fingers flexed against the tabletop, and Viggo felt a physical jolt in his own hand, a sense-memory of contact.

"I think I would have preferred it." The words tumbled out faster than he could think them through, too fast to be careful. "Floating in the water felt good. It was freezing cold but the flow was moving me, and the camera crew was right there, and it felt safe. Then all of a sudden the current had me and I couldn't fight it. There was no one close enough to help me. It pulled me down."

"Like gravity," Sean said without a trace of humor.

"It didn't feel like flying. Speaking of which." Mouth dry, Viggo took a swallow of beer. "How was the trip back?"

"The flight? Not as bad as dealing with the wife," snorted Sean. "Ex-wife. Fuck. I have to get used to that. Again."

Viggo watched his friend withdraw into himself, the same look in his eyes as he'd had when Viggo suggested skydiving. "That bad, huh?"

Sean glanced up, shadows sculpting his cheekbones. "You think it's supposed to get easier? It's worse every damn time."

"I know."

Sean's glass was empty. He started to reach for the check, but Viggo intercepted and grabbed his forearm.

"Doesn't mean you never go swimming again though. You can't let your fears stop you from living."

Under his hand Sean went very still, though Viggo could feel the pulse in his wrist pounding fast and hard against his own fingers. "My fears, or yours?" asked Sean in a voice so low it sounded more like a growl. "You still want to die in freefall?"

"Come home with me," Viggo said. They sat staring at each other across the table, unsmiling, and he thought that perhaps he had pushed too far. Then Sean dropped his eyes and nodded almost imperceptibly.

*

Things were fine at first in the car. Walking out of the restaurant, they had gotten into a conversation about New Zealand crops and ended up talking about growing vegetables, based on Viggo's trips to his grandparents' farm and Sean's fondness for gardening.

Yet Sean had been deceptively comfortable the morning Viggo had thrown him out of a plane, too. By the time they got to Viggo's street, he was starting to panic. He didn't have a clear picture in his mind of what was going to happen but he thought it might be a worse idea than skydiving.

At best, it would probably be like Orlando's latest daft hobby: bungee jumping. Just you, a cord and the cliff where if something went wrong you could smash yourself to bits after willingly hurling yourself over a ledge. Even if things went right, you'd just get yanked back up, twisted and sore.

They called it "rebound" for a reason.

"Too fast," he muttered.

Viggo glanced at him. "I'm under the speed limit."

"Not what I meant." Viggo didn't reply, just parked the car, led Sean inside and poured him a drink. Sean paced the living room, looking at all the books on Norse mythology and biographies of Tolkien. There were strange, uncanny photos of people they both knew in stacks on the floor.

"Want to see the ones I took during the storm?" Viggo asked.

The ones he had taken during the storm were in Viggo's bedroom. Sean sat on the edge of the mattress looking at them and wondered what it was with Viggo and fallen objects -- leaves, snow, crumbling plaster, the clutter of his own home and trailer that he'd chosen to immortalize in pictures.

Handing the photos back, Sean wondered how he was going to reverse himself this time and whether Viggo would dare to tackle him.

But Viggo only came around and sat next to him on the bed, a little behind Sean, legs crossed underneath his body. His hands moved up Sean's back, palms flat, fingers spread as if he were sculpting Sean. Then the fingers closed over his shoulders and the thumbs pushed down, probing the tight muscles at the base of his neck. Even that gentle pressure made Sean's breath hiss.

"Easy." Viggo nudged softly at the back of Sean's head, encouraging him to let it fall forward, tilting him just enough from side to side to make it sway, loosening the knots of tension that Sean hadn't realized were so prominent. The fingers kneading him were warm and agile, gradually increasing their force and focus.

"Let me do this right. Stay here," Viggo said quietly and rose. The loss of his weight made the bed undulate, rocking Sean, who didn't lift his head, not wanting to see where Viggo was going. A minute later he was back, sliding his hands under Sean's shirt. "Take this off, okay?"

Sean still had his shoes on, which for some reason made him think it wouldn't matter so much if his shirt was off. Besides, Viggo wasn't touching him like he expected anything other than to show off his skill at massage. Which Sean was happy to accept.

It didn't surprise Sean that Viggo knew how to do this. Nothing that Viggo could do surprised Sean anymore. While he tugged his shirt over his head, Viggo slicked his hands with something that smelled vaguely like tea, which he then painted over Sean's upper back. His fingertips submerged themselves into the softening muscles.

After a minute Viggo shifted again. "Why don't you lie down," he suggested. Too subdued to argue, Sean kicked his shoes off and lay on his belly with his fingers curled near his face. They tightened when he thought about how, if the bed and the floor and the ground disappeared, he would fall, just like that, straight through the center of the world.

But Viggo leaned over him, knees crushing the mattress as his hands spread lotion lower on Sean's back. There was warmth all around and that distinctive organic scent, so unlike plummeting through the sharp cold atmosphere. It was easier not to think, to let Viggo push away his tension.

Hands of a healer. Sean's head was too heavy for him to lift so he could say the words.

When he opened his eyes to near-darkness, Sean realized with a wave of prickly chill that he had fallen asleep. He was still on Viggo's bed, though now there was a blanket pulled over his legs and a pillow halfway under his head. He was on his side, facing the window, and Viggo was behind him -- one leg bending into the curve of his knee, an arm thrown loosely across his hip.

Twisting onto his stomach and turning his head, Sean gazed at Viggo's face. He didn't appear to be awake, yet his brow furrowed and his hand fumbled against Sean's skin, relaxing when he realized that Sean hadn't gone anywhere.

Viggo was dressed for bed, nothing but shorts on. Instinctively Sean moved closer, seeking the heat of the other man's body. Viggo shifted sleepily to accommodate him, lifting his chin to fit Sean's head against his shoulder.

Sean slipped into the warmth like sliding into water, rolling with the slow rise and fall of Viggo's breathing, listening to the steady heartbeat. Though the pliant flesh and pulsing rhythm made him harden, he felt safe. So safe that he thought he could probably get onto a chopper and fly like that.

Viggo mumbled something and woke, leaning his head back to try to look at Sean. The faint light coming from the window illuminated Viggo's eyes -- blue mostly drowned in black. His lips remained parted as if he were going to ask something, or say something.

Sean had no harness, no bungee cord. Nothing to hold on to but Viggo's hand. He closed his fingers around it and waited for Viggo to return the clasp before he leaned across the distance and kissed him.

*

Viggo felt isolated from his reality -- the dark room, the dark bed: part of a world that was no longer New Zealand or even Earth. Simultaneously, Viggo felt submerged, closer to someone than he'd ever felt before. Perhaps this was where he would have gone if he'd sunk deeper into the water, into the union of sex and darkness and fight and flight.

Viggo drew in a breath and smelled Sean's exhaled air, felt a tongue and mouth fit perfectly against his own. Sean seemed undaunted that their mouths were equal in size, their scents equivalent in pheromones. The kiss was hungrier than Viggo had imagined it would be, lasted longer.

"This isn't real," Viggo murmured, the second Sean pulled back from the soft, deep exploration.

Sean drew in a deep breath, his eyes wide and pupils dark as though staring into a cavern. "It feels real. Feel here."

Sean took Viggo's hand and placed it against his bared stomach. The skin was cold, although the space between them was very, very warm.

Viggo watched his hand on Sean's stomach, carefully felt the shape of muscle and bellybutton, moved his hand farther up to test the tautness of muscle, traced a scar, found a nipple.

With a wordless noise, Sean reached toward him, and suddenly Viggo found that his horizon was made up of one sharp-featured face, jaw and nose and eyes like a wolf's eclipsing his view of anything else.

He wasn't sure what he'd anticipated from the first tentative offer to heal, nor from the second even more tentative offer of shelter. Viggo's body arched, he heard his own voice groan. The sheets were eddies of water, Sean a force like a deep undertow. Viggo's body cried out to become one with the flood, and each atom of his neck felt like it was abandoning him to become a part of Sean's mouth as he licked and bit down the length of it.

"I want you so badly, so much," Sean's voice was a growl. His hand searched farther down Viggo until he had the fabric of Viggo's shorts in his hand, and Viggo's hard-despite-himself cock beneath.

"Sean!" Viggo managed finally, his breath rasping. The water was over his head, he was surrendering, but it felt more like flight.

"Viggo," Sean made Viggo's name sound like a song.

*

The touch that crept up his body was so different from the solid, steady pressure with which Viggo had soothed away Sean's anxiety. The fingers quivered, not shaping but mapping, following currents, discovering where it was safe to drift and where it was perilous.

Sean held still until he couldn't anymore, until his body no longer remembered fear. Knew only want. Knew only flight, even though the bed was warm beneath him and Viggo pitched against his mouth, against his hand.

What had he meant, saying it wasn't real?

Sean started to raise his head to ask, but Viggo's hand was traveling again, diverting across his chest, along the breastbone, up to his throat. Possibly he was trying to push Sean back, to slow him down. Or to silence him: Viggo's fingers spread through his beard so that only the tips of the first two touched his lips. Sean poked out his tongue to lick one, tasting lotion and salt. He drew the finger in, sucking until Viggo groaned harshly and pulled away -- not his finger from Sean's mouth but his cock from Sean's hand. "Too much," he shuddered.

Sean pulled his lips free but trapped Viggo's arm between their bodies, keeping Viggo's hand close. "Still not real?" he whispered, closing his free hand once more around Viggo's erection, which was leaking fluid through the fabric of his shorts.

He thought he could come just from touching Viggo, though he still had his jeans on. Probably should have done something about that before. Now he couldn't spare a hand to get them out of the way, as he brought Viggo's index finger once more into mouth while his palm slid over Viggo's cock, wrapping it in cloth, feeling moisture seep into his skin.

Viggo's eyes were huge, his gaze unfocused. He looked panicked and ecstatic all at once. Maybe he thought Sean expected him to have the same control here that he did in the studio or the gym, or maybe he just hadn't expected to be overwhelmed, himself.

"Please," Viggo begged. "If you don't stop touching me..." Then his head tossed, eyes squeezing shut. Sean could see the pulse in his throat. "Even if you do stop touching me..."

The finger in Sean's mouth twitched as if it was connected to Viggo's groin. He sucked hard, moving his thumb across the head of Viggo's cock in the same motion with which he flicked his tongue across the fingertip.

Sean could feel all of Viggo's muscles tensing, trying to hold him on the edge of the vortex, not to let him fall in. His feet dug into the mattress, his fingers clawed at Sean's face.

The slightest twist of Sean's hand, the faintest hum around the finger held between his lips, and Viggo called out, but it wasn't a plea for rescue this time. He surged against Sean's hand, abandoned to the plunge, to the flood, and as he gasped for breath, his mouth shaped the air into Sean's name.

*

Sean wasn't done, Viggo found. As soon as the last wave of feeling had wracked Viggo's body, Sean carefully gathered him to his heart, chest against chest and leg entwined with leg. Viggo's mind went blank, his awareness centered around warmth and the sticky feeling of shorts against his stomach.

Viggo sank into Sean's skin, embraced and clung. Sean's skin was much warmer now, his body laced with sweat, his hair soft against Viggo's cheek.

"Why?" Asked Sean, a muffled voice in his ear. "Why didn't you think it was real?"

Viggo pulled back from the embrace enough to look into Sean's eyes. He traced the scar on Sean's forehead with his finger. "When I wanted to heal you, I thought it would take a long time. But I found it didn't take much to unleash you. No wonder you're so afraid of losing control."

"Afraid of me? You?" Sean untangled himself and pulled away, lay on his back and looked up at Viggo. Viggo saw that Sean was still half-hard, his cock forming a stiff outline against his jeans. Viggo put his hand on Sean's stomach, felt the hardness of muscle beneath.

"I had no idea. Your passion is...it carried me away. I've never been wanted like that before."

"I've never wanted..." Sean's voice trailed off, but Viggo felt what he was going to say.

"Me too," Viggo said softly, watched a smile spread across Sean's face.

Viggo moved his hand slowly, farther down. He dipped his fingers underneath the waist of Sean's pants, touched the top of Sean's cock and heard his breath draw inward. Sean looked at him, his eyes wide and his expression unreadable.

"Are you sure you want to unleash me again?" Sean asked, grasping Viggo's wrist.

Viggo dropped his forehead to rest against Sean's. He stared into one large eye, and then opened his mouth and sucked Sean's lip between his. Tongue slid against tongue, and Sean moaned and pulled Viggo over him so that Viggo could feel Sean's cock -- all hard now -- against his leg.

But Viggo sat up and twisted, pinned Sean's arms up over his head, looked down.

"Sean, you don't have to gulp me. I'm not leaving, this doesn't have to end in a night. Let me know you slowly."

Sean's eyes burned, and he writhed underneath Viggo's crotch. "Okay. But hurry up."

Viggo laughed, released Sean's arms slid down the bed until he was level with Sean's belly button. He dipped his tongue into it experimentally, felt Sean's hands reflexively curl in his hair.

Viggo undid a button of Sean's jeans, licked beneath, drawing a damp design on the flesh.

"Viggo...?" His name sounded more like a curse this time, a question.

Viggo undid another button, and found to no surprise that Sean wore nothing beneath.

And another, licking Sean's abdomen as he went.

And another.

And the last.

"You've done this before." It sounded like an accusation.

"Women love it," Viggo said lightly, and then in a swift motion sat up and pulled Sean's jeans off of him.

"Women put up with this?" Sean's voice was full of disbelief.

Viggo looked down the length of Sean's body and saw thigh muscles, narrow hips, a full chest. And a cock, slightly shorter than his own but thicker, a base of dark soft hair. He ran an experimental finger along it, felt legs lock around him.

Viggo very lightly touched the top of Sean's cock, ran a finger around it, stopped.

"Bastard." The voice grated.

"We have all night."

"Bastard."

Viggo leaned down, slowly slipped the top of Sean's cock into his mouth. Viggo felt his own cock stir, raised his eyebrows, stopped sucking.

"I'd just like you to know -- I haven't felt this way since I was in my twenties."

"Keep. At it." Sean's voice was simultaneously imploring and encouraging, and his hands wound into Viggo's hair.

Viggo smiled and slid his mouth down further, slid until most of Sean's length was buried in his mouth. Rippled his tongue, applied suction.

Slid his thumb around Sean's balls, grasped the base with circled fingers, and then slid his mouth and fingers back up.

Down.

It felt like a ritual, it felt holy -- Sean's sounds increased in ferocity, in pitch, until Viggo felt the telltale swelling begin, the hardening right before come.

And Viggo stopped.

"Bastard...!" Sean said, breath coming in deep gasps, lips reddened and nipples hard.

Viggo smiled, reached for Sean's hand, put a finger into his mouth.

And sucked, while his hand played lightly -- tantalizingly lightly, with the top of Sean's cock.

"I swear I'll kill you if you don't finish me," Sean growled, struggling to remove his fingers from Viggo's mouth.

And Viggo's fingers squeezed and slipped and pulled, sucked Sean's fingers into his mouth more deeply, and Sean yelled Viggo's name.

A second later Viggo placed one last kiss on the top of Sean's wet cock.

"Now we're both sticky," Viggo said with a smug grin, crawled next to his friend, lay beside him.

Sean turned and curled against him. "Very sticky," he agreed, and kissed Viggo's neck.

*

Much later, light began to seep through the shades. They lay in a tangle of sheets, eyes locked, hands tracing the contour of bodies in the dawn.

"Did you ever think of kissing me during my death scene?" Sean asked, and ran his fingers down Viggo's bare hip.

Viggo looked shocked. "You were dying, Sean! I had nothing nearly so selfish on my mind."

Sean grinned. "So earnest. So good."

"I'll show you good," Viggo said, and slipped his hands down Sean's body.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sean does hate flying, he said so on the LOTR extended DVD, and he told FHM that his father hates it too. And Viggo really almost drowned while filming Two Towers. The rest of this is complete and utter fiction.


End file.
